


undiluted and blind (this selfishness of mine)

by sassassassin



Series: Fuck propriety [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut, THEY FUCK but with feelings tho, i havent written smut in years, the night is long and full of FUCK, theres a plot, they fuck, yehaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 02:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18929041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassassassin/pseuds/sassassassin
Summary: "Take your head out of your ass and fuck your knight. I'm sure he would be happy to oblige his Queen."Perhaps her sister had whispered some boldness into her after all.Podrick/Sansa after the warSequel to the rules of propriety (the death of desire), but can be read alone.





	undiluted and blind (this selfishness of mine)

“I’m always amazed at how cold it could get,” spoke Daenerys. “Why did they not wed during the warmer seasons?”

“They were in a hurry,” shrugged Sansa, civil but annoyed at the familiarity. She could clearly see that the Queen of Dragons was trying to build a relationship, with all the gifts she brought her and the noble men she sent her way to propose alliances through marriage. Sansa stayed civil, but nonetheless bothered. Years later, she had yet to forget the Queen’s brief descent into madness and Jon's imprisonment. She was thankful that she was at least a little reasonable, and could see the wrongs in her ways.

“It’s beautiful. They’re really quite the beautiful pair,” whispered the blonde woman, staring wistfully at the new Lord and Lady of Storm’s End.

Sansa sipped at her wine, imperceptibly nodding, and nearly let out a sigh of relief when Daenerys turned away to talk to Tyrion. Without her accord, her eyes drifted towards the knight seated a few tables away. He was leaning towards the girl seated next to him, his shoulder brushing hers, and whispering words that made her giggle. The sound made the Queen of the North cringe internally, and she downed the rest of her drink in the most unladylike manner.

_You have a knight who follows you like a lost puppy_

Her sister’s words resonated in her head, and she couldn’t help but laugh at the irony; he had the most beautiful girls seeking his renown _talents_ , flirting and giggling at him, and she was the one moping in her corner. She was a Queen, _for God’s sake_ , and this was supposed to be a night of celebration. She was not supposed to be having improper thoughts about her squire turned knight.

Sansa had always thought she would marry before her sister. Which, in retrospect, she did, but certainly not to the _one_. Her first husband, although a _good_ man, was not the _right_ man. Her second husband, she could not even bear thinking of him. He was but a forgotten thought; a memory that had left her scarred, both physically and mentally, to the point of being unable to look at her naked body in fear of feeling the ghost of his violent touch on her skin.

There was no need to dwell on the past, as Bran would tell her. _The things that happened to you are horrible, but they have brought you here. It is what it is._ They have made her a stronger woman, there was no denying it. It was nonetheless a horrible set of circumstances. There were other ways to grow, and Sansa had no doubts that she would have grown as a woman, a happier woman, had those things never seen the light of day. She would not recoil at the touch of a man, no matter how innocent, or look behind her every time she would walk down a dark corridor within the walls of her own castle, the same castle where she had been repeatedly violated by a monster, a man who had no qualms in taking what he wanted from her, no matter how painful.

She shook the intrusive thoughts away, and looked at the recently wedded pair. She was happy for her sister, _ecstatic_ even, but she couldn’t help the feeling of envy emerging in her heart at the thought of her wild boyish sister finding a man who _loved_ her so unconditionally, a man who _pleased_ her in all the right ways, ways that Sansa had never experienced before. She could see it in the way he would look at her, adoration seeping through every pore of his body. Gendry was enamoured with her sister to a _revolting_ degree, and Arya was the same, although different in her affection. She was possessive as a wolf, watching over Gendry and snarling at anyone who dared threaten him.

She felt a pang in her heart at the sight of Gendry’s arms around her sister. He was gazing down into her eyes, their foreheads joined, and Arya was smiling bigger than she had ever seen her smile, looking far different from the deadly assassin she knew her to be. The Lord and Lady of Storm’s End were positively _thriving_ , caught in a blissful act in the aftermath of the worst wars that had ever ravaged Westeros.

Even Jon, who had been at odds with the Queen of the six kingdoms following his imprisonment, was looking at her rather adoringly. She was abashedly looking away, and Sansa did not know whether it was due to embarrassment or shame for what she had done to him.

Truly, it was a blessing for them all to be finally reunited, celebrating their family.

 _And yet_ , she thought, her gaze drifting once again to the young boyish man now surrounded by half a dozen smitten ladies competing for his attention. His prowess really did precede him, and she had seen his popularity only increase following his knighting. Sometimes she regretted doing it; she selfishly wished he was still the same squire who would follow her everywhere, blushing madly at every look she threw his way, or every word she spoke to him. He still followed her, like a _lost puppy_ , as her sister claimed, but he was less intimidated and more confident around her than he had ever been in the years they had known each other.

She violently set her mug on the table, earning curious glances from other attendees of the wedding feast. Daenerys and Tyrion eyed her, the latter quirking an inquisitive brow at her odd mood, and she simply smiled at them, relieved when they turned their attention back to each other.

She must have been drinking a lot, because by some grace of the gods, she found herself armed with long buried courage as she decisively made her way towards the knight, her eyes never leaving his face as he was turned away towards one of the young women around him.

_Take your head out of your ass and fuck your knight. I'm sure he would be happy to oblige his Queen._

Perhaps her sister had whispered some boldness into her after all.

* * *

Podrick looked up, noticing the girls visibly blanch at something approaching them, and saw the Queen, her cheeks deliciously reddened and her eyes ablaze, coming their way with a determination he’d only seen in her when she stood her ground about diplomatic decisions rebutted by some insolent lords. That was when she looked the most enticing; powerful and burning with passion for her people.

When she was in front of him, he quickly stood up, bowing low and stammering away. “Your-your Grace.”

“Pod,” she replied, staring down at the girls. They seemed to get the hint and quickly scurried away, bowing low as well to their Queen. “I see you’ve been enjoying yourself. I’m sorry for scaring away your admirers.”

He looked up, his eyes wide. “It’s-it’s not-I mean, it’s not like that. Your Grace. You don’t have to apologize.”

She merely smiled and walked around the table until she was next to him, standing uncomfortably close. He was slightly taller than her, and if he leaned down a little, he could capture her reddened lips in a searing kiss _. I shouldn’t be thinking this way, it’s not proper. She’s my Queen._

“You don’t have to be modest, Ser Payne,” she laughed lightly, her pale eyelashes fluttering against her eyelids. _Gods, she was beautiful._ “Your reputation precedes you. Tyrion loves recounting the tale of those whores who refused your payment.”

“My-my Lady!” he sputtered, shocked at the words leaving her mouth. Sansa watched him falter, his cheeks progressively turning redder. He nervously ran a hand through his locks, and she entertained the thought of tugging at them, picturing his reddened face underneath her.

Or on top of her. She was not picky.

She sat down next to him, fiddling with her hands, and tapped the seat next to her, prompting him to sit down. In a moment of bravery -or stupidity, she did not know what to call it- she reached for his ale, and sipped at it, maintaining eye contact through the whole ordeal. She enjoyed the way his mouth hung open, watching her tongue dart out and lick the rim of the mug. He swallowed imperceptibly, looking away from the sight, and hung his head low.

“I am no fan of ale,” she said, putting back the mug in front of him and shifting closer until her shoulder was pressed against his, hoping that the attendees of the feast were far too drunk to notice her impropriety. “But I must admit, there’s _something_ about this one, I couldn’t help but reach for it. I’m sorry for taking your drink.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he finally spoke after a beat, looking back at her. “This is your castle, your Grace. You own everything here.”

“I don’t own _everything_ ,” she said, looking pointedly at him. “The people of Winterfell own it. It belongs to me as much as it belongs to the next servant, as much as it belongs to _you_.”

He nodded, smiling boyishly at her, and grabbed his ale, placing his lips where hers had been moments prior. In the same manner, he looked into her eyes, taking a long swing of the drink. She couldn’t help but stare at the way his plump lips moved against the rim. He was looking at her with an intensity that neared reverence, and a shudder of anticipation ran through her frame. _Perhaps Arya was right. What has propriety done to me but throw me from terrible to worse man like a ragdoll?_

“You’ve thrown a wonderful feast, your Grace,” he spoke, his words measured. He set to filling the mug once again, choosing to look away from Sansa in fear of doing something foolish.

“Thank you, Pod. I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” she replied, tentatively placing her hand on his arm in a soft caress.

She saw him stop, and she nearly recoiled, thinking that she had overstepped a boundary. Unknowingly to her, Podrick was thinking the same; she was a Queen. He could not permit himself to let her act in such a way around him in her inebriated state. It was odd, for she was reputably serious and unfazed. He could not for the life of him understand what was happening. She was probably unaware of what she was doing, while every part of his body was acutely alert of her: her sweet and floral smell, the feeling of her hand on his arm, the way her thigh would brush against his…A selfish part of him was glad that she was with him; he could not bear the thought of having her act this way around another man. He did not trust them, but at least he knew that he would never dishonour her in any way.

“I am enjoying myself,” he replied, honest. “It’s the first Stark wedding in years.”

Her eyes darkened, and she looked far away for a moment. “At least this one is built on love.”

Podrick felt guilt, recalling the terrible things Brienne and he had heard while scouring Winterfell when the Bolton’s ruled it. There was talk of the Stark woman’s screams echoing in the night, her sobs like wails of ghosts unable to escape the veil of life. “Lord Baratheon is a good man, an honourable one. He is not like his father.”

She smiled softly, her thigh now completely pressed against his, and her heart thrumming wildly against her chest. She had not been this close to a man in years, and she felt elated by the feelings waking in her. “He takes care of her, in more ways than one.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about your sister, your Grace. She can take care of herself.”

“No, I meant that he _pleases_ her, thoroughly,” she clarified, watching his expression.

Being this close to him, she could see the way colour would invade his face. He would first become paler, his eyes wide in realization, before smatterings of redness would overtake his cheeks, finally covering his entire face and spreading to the tips of his ears, disappearing behind wild strands of dark hair.

“I-that’s improper of me to discuss with you, your Grace,” he replied, biting his lip, his eyes going down to their pressed thighs.

Sansa rolled her eyes, recalling her own past reticence at discussing such subjects with her more experienced sister. “You can call me Sansa, you know. I’ve told you countless times.”

 “That would also be improper, _Sansa_ ,” said Podrick, smiling cheekily, both embarrassed and elated by their moment of complicity. The Queen that seemed so far and unattainable seemed so close to him in that moment.

Hearing her name come out of his mouth sent a jolt straight down her core, and she had to clench her thighs together at the desire she felt for the young man seated next to her. The gesture did not go amiss, for Podrick was much more vested in the matter than she was, and his eyes widened imperceptibly at the feeling of her muscles flexing against his thigh. _Gods, she was aroused, for me?_

Sansa laughed lightly, feeling like the little girl she used to be, the same girl who dreamt of falling in love and marrying a prince. She felt someone’s eyes on her, and looked up to see Arya, still in the arms of her now husband, grinning at her wickedly, her brow raised suggestively. She reddened, but nodded at her, finally understanding where her sister was coming from. _You deserve to know love and pleasure._

She looked away, and quickly stood up. Podrick watched her, disappointed at her decision to depart from him. It quickly faded away when she grabbed his arm and pulled him up and off his seat. “I’m feeling a little lightheaded. Would you please walk with me, Pod?”

He nodded eagerly, regretting his clammy hands when she grabbed one, leading him out and away from the feast. They walked through the halls of the castle, bathed in darkness except for the few torches littering the darkest corners. The trip seemed so long, and yet so short, for he wanted to hold her hand forever. The thought surprised him; Podrick was not a shy man, he had done the filthiest and raunchiest things to whores and ladies alike, and the mere act of holding his lady’s hand made him feel like a dog with two tails.

When they had finally reached their destination, he was surprised to see that they were standing in front of her chambers. She turned around and looked at him, her eyes half-lidded, and Podrick felt himself harden embarrassingly.

“Thank you for walking with me,” she said, squeezing his hand.

“It’s my pleasure to walk with my Queen. I bid you goodnight, Sansa,” he replied, bringing her hand to his lips and placing a soft kiss on the back.

He watched her bite her lip, and feeling bold, turned her hand to place another kiss at the juncture of her palm and wrist, feeling her heart thrum wildly, her blood coursing through her veins like wild rapids. She gasped audibly, trembling lightly with pleasure at the way his lips pressed against her skin, followed by his thumb running softly over her palm. He released her hand, and she let it fall limply at her side, her other hand clutching her dress.

_You deserve to lay with a man and only feel the good in it, nothing of the bad._

“Would you-would you please come inside?” she stuttered out.

“My lady,” he whispered. “That would be-”

“Improper, I know,” she stopped him. “I just-I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“My lady, the wine in your body is speaking for you,” he tried again.

“I am perfectly cognizant,” she retorted, turning around and entering her chambers. “Besides, I trust you, Pod.”

He thought for a moment, delighted by her trust, before nodding at her, and following her inside the room. He immediately set to lighting a fire to warm it up, and Sansa watched him crouch in front of the fireplace, deep in thought and focused on the task at hand. She deeply exhaled, her fingers rapidly working at unfastening her dress before she lost her nerve, and she felt them trembling against the soft fabric. She dexterously untied the whole thing, letting her dress fall open at her front, and watched as he stood up, satisfied with the way the fire lit up the room with its dim light.

“There,” he said, turning to look at her, his breath noticeable in the coldness of the room. “This should warm you up, my la-“

He stopped short, his eyes finally meeting the exposed expanses of skin at her chest. She shivered, not knowing whether it was due to her state of undress or to his heated gaze.

“I think I know how I can be warmed up faster,” she replied teasingly, her voice trembling towards the end.

“My Queen,” he whispered, his eyes running down her form. “What- I don’t-”

“Podrick,” she whispered, walking up to him. She stopped when she was a mere hair away from his chest, and looked up into his half-lidded eyes.

He watched as the flames danced along her skin, her red hair fierier than he had ever seen it. He remembered when she was back at King’s Landing. Her hair had seemed duller, nearly orange and not the vibrant red it was when she was back in Winterfell. The North really was her home, and Podrick decided that he liked it better this way. She looked alive, like the wolf she was known to be; the passionate and fierce Stark with the brains to prove it.

She placed a hand on his armoured chest, and Podrick’s eyes followed as the dress slipped a little, revealing the swell of her breasts. His breath hitched, and he looked at her. Her eyes were swimming with desire. He felt unworthy of being at the receiving end of it. “Can I kiss you?”

He thought he misheard, but then she got up on her toes, her eyes leveling with his, her lips a short breath away from his, awaiting his approval. He did not hesitate. He immediately covered the short distance, and his lips brushed hers in a soft kiss. Her hands ran up his chest, and she put her arms around his neck. She dug her fingers into his soft hair, and he thanked the gods that he had washed it a few hours earlier in preparation for the feast.

He pressed his lips harder against hers, his tongue running along her lips teasingly. She moaned, her mouth parting, and Podrick sought her warm tongue with his. She was shuddering against him, and he put his arms around her thin waist in an attempt to warm her up, pressing her body flush against his. He was momentarily frustrated at the thickness of his armour. He did not know whether he was dreaming or not, or whether the moment would last; he was desperate to feel every inch of her.

Sansa did not know that the simply act of kissing someone would feel so good. When he had run his tongue along hers, she had felt herself suddenly dampen, and her body felt ablaze, much warmer than the room they stood in. All she had ever known was violence. She had once kissed Joffrey, but it was innocent; an innocent form of manipulation. Ramsay would rarely kiss her. He would only place his hands on her body, and when he did kiss her, he would leave her mouth bruised, and her lips bleeding at the onslaught. Podrick’s lips, however, worshipped her. Hips tongue was touching every part of her mouth, exploring and mapping its way inside. He was delicate in his touch, and yet, demanding and resolute.

When they finally separated, he placed his forehead against her, breathing rapidly. “My lady…”

“ _Sansa_ ,” she said, breathless. “Please, _Podrick_.”

“I-do you want this?” he whispered, both hopeful and apprehensive.

She swallowed audibly and nodded at him. It was the first time anyone had asked her what she wanted. “I’ve only felt pain with other men. I want-I want to feel something different, I want to feel _good_ and _loved_ for once. I trust you to make me feel all those things”

 _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , he thought, the words refusing to leave his mouth, the emotion only reflected in his adoring gaze, full of _want_ for her. He did not care that it was only a fleeting moment of weakness from her part, or a need to satisfy her curiosity, even just an itch to scratch. He was _her_ knight, and he would serve his Queen to the detriment of his heart.

He ran a hand down her neck, and she momentarily recalled the way her dead husband’s hands would wrap around her throat, madness in his eyes. Podrick’s touch was soft, delicate, and only in passing, for the same hand now fiddled with the edge of her dress. He pushed it aside until it fell to the floor, leaving her bare in front of him except for her smallclothes.

“You’re-you’re a vision,” he whispered, his eyes racking over her form. They stopped briefly at the scars by her sides, remnants of a long dead man who only showed her pain. He immediately brought his hands to her hips, caressing the marked skin. “You’re strong and beautiful. I could stare at you command a room for hours, but now, I feel like I’m looking at something sacred.”

She felt tears well up in her eyes. She closed them and leaned towards him, capturing his lips once again. Her hands fiddled with his armour, trying to find an opening, before he took them in his to guide them in the right direction. She undressed him blindly, her mouth still latched to his, and when his armour hit the floor, she retreated to watch him take off his shirt, revealing rippling muscles underneath. He was not as carved as Gendry or Jon, but he was larger than she expected. His chest was broad, and his arms were thick with muscles due to him swinging a sword day and night. Her eyes ran down his chest to the trail on hair leading down his breeches, and she bit her lip appreciatively at his noticeable hardness.

Podrick reached for her and held her up in his arms. She did not stop him, as for once, she did not object to being manhandled by a man. He walked up to the featherbed in the corner of the room, covered with the softest and most expensive furs, and placed her atop of it. He quickly discarded his breeches, and Sansa finally saw the impressive member jutting out at her, standing proud and hard.

He joined her on the bed, looming over her, and Sansa finally felt the warm skin of his chest press against her bare breasts when he kissed her once again, this time not as slowly, but more intensely, projecting all of his devotion into the simple act. His member was poking her thigh, a constant reminder of what was to come, and it only served to make her wetter, quivering with need.

“I’m going to touch you now,” he whispered softly into her mouth, and she hummed in agreement. His hands ran up her legs, and she felt the stubble of his beard along her neck as he pressed delicate kisses on the skin, marring it with red marks. _I’m going to have to cover those_ , she thought briefly, her eyes closed, basking in the sensation.

When his lips reached her chest, and his hand ran up her inner thigh, she tensed up, painful memories behind her eyelids. Podrick reassured her with his touch, softly caressing the skin of her thighs and pressing open mouthed kisses atop her breasts. When his lips finally closed around a budding nipple, she gasped, wondering how such a simple gesture could make her feel so many things at once. Perhaps it was the way he would explore every inch of her skin, projecting his love through every nibble and every kiss, or the way he would whisper into her how _beautiful_ and _lovely_ she was. Perhaps it was even the way his lips would kiss every blemish and every scar on her skin, erasing their past for a fleeting moment, making her feel anew.

His mouth sucked gently at her teat. His other hand reached for her other breast, kneading it gently, and rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers. For moment, Sansa thought she could not breathe; she had never felt such pleasure, and to think that it was a man giving it to her felt unbelievable.

“Is this okay?” he mumbled against her breast, the reverberations sending waves of pleasure down to her core.

“Yes,” she gasped out. “Please, don’t stop.”

“Anything for you,” he said.

She felt him smiling against her breast, before his mouth moved down her stomach, leaving a trail of saliva on her skin. Sansa should have felt abhorred by such a filthy act, but she could not bring herself to care about propriety. All that was on her mind was the feeling of him touching her _everywhere_.

She felt his hand trail down her side. When he reached her smallclothes, he rose on his knees, and Sansa shivered at the sudden onslaught of cold against the drying trail left by her lover. _Lover_.

He quickly discarded them, his eyes watching the juncture between her legs hesitantly. Sansa blushed, crossing them in shame, and looked away from him. “I’m already ruined, Podrick. You don’t have to worry.”

“Sansa,” he breathed. “You’re not ruined, nothing could ever ruin you, especially not a man like him. You’re perfect, stronger and deadlier than ever. I think you’re going to be the death of me.”

She smiled shyly at him, grateful for the omission of her dead husband’s name, and reached for him, pulling down to her level to kiss him again. She could not get enough of his mouth, _gods_ , she was foolish to not have given in to her desires before this day. He had a way with words, she realized. He always stuttered, never seeming to be able to go through a sentence around her or around other nobles, but in this moment, he was in his element. He knew what to say, and by the openness of his face, she knew it was no act; he was only being truthful with her. He had always been honest with his Queen.

“It is alright if I touch you _there_?” he asked again, and she found it endearing how he would make sure she was okay with everything he did.

“You can touch me,” she replied. _Please touch me_ , she wanted to say. _I can’t wait anymore._

He ran a hand down her stomach and between her red curls, reaching for her sex. When his fingers finally prodded at the wetness, he grinned proudly, elated by the desire he woke in his Queen. She was wet for him, wet and ready, and he could not wait to ravage her.

He spread her lips, and ran his thumb down her slit, collecting the moisture there. He brought it to his lips, locking his eyes with hers, and gently licked her essence, watching as her mouth hung open and the redness on her cheeks spread down to her chest.

He brought his fingers back to her cunt, gently caressing her, listening to her sighs of pleasure. They sounded like the sweetest song to his ears. Knowing that he could make her sigh his name with such reverence made him feel like he could conquer all of Westeros, even Essos, just for his lady.

When his thumb brushed against a nub nestled atop her sex, her eyes suddenly flew open, and she let out a loud moan, immediately placing a hand on her mouth. She felt mortified for letting out such a sound. What if someone could hear her, the taciturn Queen wailing the name of her lover? She never thought that something would feel so enjoyable. If kissing her breasts felt good, it did not compare to the way her whole body shuddered with pleasure when he had touched her _there_.

Podrick grabbed her hand, pulling it away from her mouth, and she frowned at him. “Please don’t hide. I want to hear you, I want to know what feels good for you.”

She nodded, and he resumed his ministrations, his fingers rubbing that same button. She felt her pleasure building, ready to release like a coil. She did not know where it was leading her, and she felt apprehensive. But she trusted him, and it felt good, so why should she be afraid of feeling pleasure?

He did not stop caressing her, but with a finger, he reached down her entrance, prodding lightly, before introducing it to the insides of her cavern. He softly caressed her walls, curving his finger upwards, and she felt the pressure in her lower abdomen suddenly increase. By then, she was moaning loudly, whimpering his name repeatedly. He introduced a second finger, his hand going faster, and Sansa ignored the lewd noises of her wetness spreading on his hand to focus on the feeling it gave her.

When she thought that she had finally reached the point of no return, Podrick suddenly stopped. Sansa let out a low whine in protest to the loss of the feel of his hand, glaring at him accusingly. But he only smiled cockily, leaning over her to kiss her. She realized she was sweating, her chest was heaving against his, and his fingers, wet with her essence, were pressed against her side.

“Why did you stop?” she asked, breathless. “I was-it was going _somewhere_.”

“I wanted you to make you peak with my mouth,” he replied, his lips brushing against the column of her throat. “I want to taste your cunt.”

She reddened at the suggestion, remembering the time she found Lord Baratheon pleasuring her sister in the same way. Arya -the deadliest assassin in Westeros as far as Sansa knew- had been so far gone that she had not noticed Sansa in the forge. The lewd nature of Podrick’s proposition and the raunchiness of the act may have put her off, but her curiosity won the best of her when she let him kneel between her legs. He placed them atop his shoulders, and kissed the skin of her inner thighs.

When his mouth reached her apex, he lightly kissed her slit. Then, his tongue darted out, licking the wetness there, ravaging her like a starved man. She felt the same pleasure building again when he closed his lips around her nub, and _sucked_. The act made her arch her back off the bed, and grab his locks in a fist, her other hand gripping the furs underneath her. He repeatedly ran his tongue over it, and Sansa felt her legs tremble. They would have surely slipped off his shoulders had he not been holding them, softly running his hands over the skin of her thighs while his tongue did wonders to her nether regions.

The pleasure in her lower stomach reached its peak, and this time, with one long swipe of his tongue, Sansa unravelled before his eyes, arching her back and whimpering, her fiery red hair splayed around her like a halo. He kept licking, under the guise of prolonging her pleasure. In truth, he was a selfish man, and seeing her become undone because of _him_ was an image he wanted to burn in his brain for the rest of his life. He felt like a _god_.

When she finally came down from her high, her eyes were hazy, unfocused, and Podrick felt more pride in that moment that he had ever felt in his whole life, perhaps even more than when she had knighted him. She had let him do that to her, his unattainable Queen of the North, a wolf through and through. She had let him, a simple squire turned knight who devoted his life to serving her, bring her to her most vulnerable state.

He could die a happy man.

“Podrick,” she said, getting on her elbows. “I don’t-I didn’t know women could feel like this…”

“Why so, my lady?” he asked, laying down next to her. He couldn’t help but note the way her furs felt like the softest thing he’d ever touched, except for her.

“I’ve only known pain, naught of this pleasure. I thought only men found pleasure in the act,” she admitted.

“I find pleasure in seeing you unravel, Sansa,” he breathed huskily. “You looked like a goddess.”

She bit her lip, her hand smoothing down her hair. She must have looked unkept, but she couldn’t bring herself to care about such a vapid matter when her knight looked at her like the hung the stars and the moon in the sky.

“Kiss me again,” she ordered him, and so he did, ardently, and she tasted herself in his mouth.

“We can stop now, if you want,” he murmured. He did not want to stop, but he would not force her into anything she didn’t want. What kind of man would it make him?  It would certainly not make him any better than the dead Bolton.

“No,” she quipped. “I want to feel you, I want _you_ to unravel.”

He nodded, getting on top of her. His cock was aching, he had never been this hard, and he couldn’t wait to sink into her warmth. He placed the head at her entrance, watching her as she breathed deeply, readying herself for the pain she knew would come. But when he finally plunged into her softness, she felt _nothing_ of it. She only felt fullness, a sense of completion, and she nearly cried. Her eyes welled up with tears, and Podrick, filling her to the brim, leaned over and kissed each of her eyelids comfortingly, his lips trailing down the path of a lone tear that leaked out of her eye.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked worryingly.

“No,” she replied. “You’re not hurting me. This-this is perfect.”

And then, he moved.

He moved, and she thought that her deftly crafted walls were crumbling. His cock was touching every part of her warmth, caressing her innards softly. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. He initially moved slowly, kissing every part of her body he could reach, muttering his devotion into her skin like a mantra. His thrusts quickened, and her pleasure increased, shooting out like an arrow into the dead of night. He knew just the way to move, and his cock reached places she never knew existed, made her feel unimaginable things. He made her cunt flutter with pleasure; his prowess _really_ was justified. 

When his movements became jerkier, he reached between them for that nub nestled deeply within her curls and rubbed it vigorously. His eyes bore into hers, watching her with a hazy glare, his pupils wide with lust. His forehead was glistening, and his curls were sticking to it. Sansa ran a hand through his hair, smoothing those wild curls back to see his eyes. Amid the throws of passion, the glow from the fire revealed a sight; he looked positively _beautiful_. His hair was wild, and his muscles were rippling against her softer body, his arms caging her protectively in the dead of night. But beyond that, he was thoughtful, caring, and would never do anything to harm her. For a silly moment, she entertained the thought that she was in love with him, and she had to stop those intrusive feelings from leaving her mouth when the coil snapped. She peaked once more around his cock, her face buried in his shoulder and her teeth biting his skin to block the words from escaping. With a final groan, his cock left her wetness, and he grabbed himself. With a few final jerks, he peaked on her stomach as she watched him, his mouth open and his whole body tensing, before relaxing all at once. He looked far from the boyish squire he used to be. He looked like a beautiful man, and she understood why all those women threw themselves at him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, moments later, picking up his discarded shirt to clean up the mess he made on her skin.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she giggled. “I’m the one who’s sorry for not asking you to do this sooner.”

He smiled shyly, and stood up, looking around the room for his clothing. He did not look at her, his eyes fleeting. She watched him nervously as he started to dress up.

“Podrick,” she said. “You don't have to leave. Please stay.”

He turned around, his breeches around his calves, surprised by her demand. “But-my lady, it’s not proper. What if someone finds us in the morning?”

“Then lock the door,” she shrugged, patting the spot next to her. He did so, making sure the door could not be opened, and hesitantly walked up to her, still naked, and climbed on top of the bed. He laid down next to her, and Sansa immediately reached for him, and placed her head on his chest, letting the beat of his heart lull her to sleep. She did not bother with dressing; she wanted to feel his body against hers, her skin pressed firmly against his.

“I love you, Sansa,” he later muttered into her hair, her now regular breathing fooling him into thinking that she was sleeping. She did not reply, not wanting to embarrass him, but her beating heart told her otherwise; maybe she felt the same but was only scared of her budding feelings. After all, men did foolish things when they were in love, and women were no better.

She could not dwell any further on those feelings. Her knight had tired her, and moments later, she was fast asleep.

* * *

“You missed one,” grinned Arya the next day, her finger running along the bruise on her sister’s neck as she walked past her in the training yard. “Seems like you _really_ threw propriety out of the window, what would mother say?”

Sansa reddened, swatting her hand away, and eyeing her defiantly. “You’re one to talk.”

Arya left, laughing loudly, and left Sansa standing, watching her knight spar with one of his trainees. Sansa met Podrick’s eyes. She smiled coyly at him, and he reddened, tripping and nearly dropping his sword.

_I love you too._

**Author's Note:**

> bruh, my otp is lowkey sansa/happiness. podrick makes me happy, so here you go.  
> i fell in love with this pair literal days ago when i wrote part one of this series, now im obsessed. Please yall, write some more sansa/podrick thank u  
> i wrote this in a day. i thought hey let me write part one today and the smut tomorrow after work but then i stayed up til 4 am because i love to suffer. its probably full of mistakes but oh well, i was excited to post it :)  
> comment for what you thought, i hope i havent lost my ability to write smut lol  
> love u and see u soon muah


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